


where i can't follow

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Avari vs. Eldar Ideas of Death, Avari!Edrahil, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Discussion of Death, M/M, Musings on Death, Philosophy, The Avari, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Findaráto and Edrahil discuss death, and what comes beyond, and find they are at odds.
Relationships: Edrahil/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings





	where i can't follow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this once, i would go before you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010817) by [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin). 



> for b2mem 3/10/20! the prompts were “They had begun to forget: forget their own beginnings and legends, forget what little they had known about the greatness of the world” [Official Prompt], Eldar [Character Groups], and the Elves awake in Cuiviénen [Canon Beginnings].
> 
> As linked, this is directly inspired by RaisingCaiin's Finrod and Edrahil fics, where Edrahil is an Avar. If you haven't read their fics what are you doing??

"They see death so different than we," Findaráto says in wonder, his eyes still lit with thoughts and words from far away. "I know it is their fate to see it so, but that their end must be a curse and not a blessing—!"

Edrahil listens, patient as he always is. Findaráto will talk himself in circles around the same idea and come out with a new conclusion each time, and this will be no different. He has little to add, and nothing worth Findaráto's consideration, and so he stays silent, enjoying the spinning thoughts of his liege and lover.

"And it is not as if we view death as a blessing," Findaráto muses, "for it is full of pain and grief, especially on these shores far from the Blessed Lands. But they have the great unknown before them, their spirits moving onward, while ours stay tied to Arda. It is this uncertainty they fear, I believe, and the certainty of our reembodiment which they envy."

It is a foolish thought, Edrahil knows, and he lets out a soft snort. "Reembodiment" is a word the Noldor bandy about carelessly, not knowing its true depth: not knowing it is a rebirth which they shall attain, as different folk with the same ageless soul but new bodies, new hearts, new purpose, not a perfected copy of what they once had been.

"Do not dismiss their concerns," Findaráto scolds gently, reaching to press gently upon his nose. "We have the privilege of wondering of their fate, while they have only the worry."

Edrahil raises an eyebrow. "I do not dismiss them," he says.

"Then what do you laugh at, Edrahil?" Findaráto kisses him sweetly, and Edrahil melts: though he holds little esteem for his own philosophies, he cannot deny his thoughts when they are so earnestly asked after.

"Only your own certainty of _your_ fate," Edrahil says. "You Eldar, the elves of the light: you wandered west and filled your heads with god-light, god-promises, but living among deity emboldened you."

"Emboldened? What do you mean?" Findaráto frowns, and Edrahil shakes his head.

"Forgive me," he apologizes, "I did not mean to belittle your wisdom."

"Belittle? Stars, no!" Findaráto twines his fingers in Edrahil's, his eyes wide. "You have a different perspective, a different history, as an Avar—"

"Kwend," Edrahil corrects. "If you wish to hear the lore of my people, you shall hear it in our truest name."

Finrod nods eagerly. "Tell me, please, my Kwendi lover!"

And so Edrahil relents, and speaks of the ancient lore. He is not of the Unbegotten, those who awoke at Cuiviénen and knew no birth, but he has known them before he was sold to the Sindar. The Calaquendi, those who left, made their own legends of this time, tainted by the god-light that addled their minds, but on the most basic details they retain the true knowledge.

"We awoke beneath the stars, your ancestors and mine," Edrahil says, and then paused, for he knows this tale in his native tongue but not in the borrowed shape in which he spoke to Findaráto. "We knew no god but Eru, the One, who made us, and we praised his stars. We loved their glow, and needed no Tree-light."

"But it is Varda who made the stars," Findaráto objects.

Edrahil shakes his head. "We know no Varda. We know Arum, the Hunter, whose wolves and horses we could see afar off, but we hid from his face. When he at last beheld us in all his terror, we knew we should have stayed hid, for he took three of us away, and they returned—different. Strange and lost, unfamiliar, blind to the starlight."

"My grandfather, Finwë, was one of them," Findaráto says softly. "He spake of the darkness and fear in the Wild Wood, and his joy upon seeing the light of Aman."

"And yet that blinding light did not save him from the Enemy," Edrahil points out. "In leaving your kin forgot the truths we Kwendi know. That death is part of life, that grief is part of joy. There is no heroism in it, no utter tragedy. It only—is. And you will not rise from death, not as a full-formed figure. Our souls may be eternal, but they return in child's form, washed of memory."

"But I have seen the dead walk again," Findaráto insists. "I know this truth, as firm as you know yours."

Edrahil shakes his head. He knew nothing could dissuade his foolish, bright-eyed lover from his faith. "I say this only because you ask," he says quietly. "I do not mean to offend."

Findaráto looks at him long and serious. "You are not," he says softly. "I want to know your heart, Edrahil, and if I close my own to what seems at first to contradict it, I will never grow."

"I fear for you," Edrahil confesses. "I shall die for you, someday—"

"Edrahil—" Findaráto protests, but this time Edrahil speaks on: "I shall die for you, someday, and you must know that I will not return. I cannot follow your spirit into the West."

Findaráto looks down for several moments, and Edrahil fears his words have driven a rift between them, but then he looks up and smiles with a sadness in his eyes, and kisses him, and he knows he has not.

"I can hope, a foolish hope though it may be," Findaráto murmurs with his lashes brushing against Edrahil's face. "And even if I must find you as a child, with no memory of me, I will find you, my love."

Edrahil turns his face away. "You say this now. The folk who left Cuiviénen said they would never forget those who remained, and yet you lost even our legends."

"Edrahil." Findaráto cups his cheek and pulls him close. "I swear to you—"

"No oaths," Edrahil rasps. "Have you not learned their dangers from your treacherous kin?"

"I will not forget you," Findaráto promises. "I love you. I will love you if you die and I will love you if _I_ die, and when I am reembodied in Aman I will return here and find the man you have become in your second life. You hold my heart. Edrahil."

Edrahil blinks back tears, overwhelmed: was not this devotion of the sort he, the guard, ought to show to his lord, and not the other way around? He has used all his fair words already that night, and he has none left to show the depth of his own love for Findaráto.

So: "Thank you," he whispers, and pulls Findaráto close, and tells him with his body in the only way he knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [where i must follow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120641) by [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin)
  * [imagine there's no heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121907) by [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin)




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